


Sonata Pathétique

by LoversAntiquities



Series: Destiel Smut Brigade 2015 Winter Challenge [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas Eve, Confessions, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Getting Back Together, Grief/Mourning, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Snowed In, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-09 00:41:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5519156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five years after Castiel left him at their senior prom, Dean is forced to return to Lawrence for Charles Novak's funeral—and on Christmas Eve, inadvertently falls in love all over again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sonata Pathétique

“So, I heard Charles Novak passed away a few days ago.”

Dean nearly choked in the middle of the hallway. The last time he spoke to any of the Novak family was too long ago—nearly half a decade, now that he thought about it. Chuck had never been the most stable of parents, but at least he was there, drunk or otherwise. So went the life of reclusive writers, Dean considered; for all he knew, he probably drank himself into a stupor and walked in front of a semi. It wouldn't have been the first time, anyway. “How’d it happen?” Dean asked, closing the door to his dorm room behind him. His most recent roommate had moved out last week, leaving him with a twin bed and a gaping emptiness on the opposite side of the room.

On the other end of the call, his mother sighed, obviously picking her words. “Pancreatic cancer, Naomi said. One day he went to the emergency room and the next…” A pause; he knew Mary was shaking her head. “Anyway, she wanted to ask if we would come to the funeral, since everyone’ll be in town this week.”

Kicking his tennis shoes against the tan-carpeted floor, Dean blanched, fighting the urge to curl into himself. _Kansas_ —he hadn’t been back there extensively since he left for Georgia five years ago on the Amtrak, living in the dorms between a string of constant roommates. Benny had been his longest stay, at least until he graduated and moved onto greener pastures. Actual pastures—last he heard, he was working as a farmhand in Louisiana. Kansas had been a different time, a different era in his life. He was loath to admit it, but he missed the rolling plains and the summer storms, the snow that buried the city in inches, even feet. Not the pathetic excuse he had in the south, where half an inch equaled certain death and thunderstorms were a legitimate excuse to call off class for the day.

Though, he certainly didn't appreciate the humidity. Years later and he still didn't understand how anyone lived in Georgia willingly.

He didn't know what to say. Even growing up, Chuck was a distant figure, almost never in the picture except for at sporting events or at orchestra concerts. Always in the background with his wife, always soft-spoken, always with whiskey on his breath. And now he was dead, out of his life entirely and soon to be buried six feet under. He scratched the back of his neck and murmured a noise, his mother catching the intent in his tone. “Is something wrong?”

“Is,” Dean stopped, swallowed. He could do this—he could say his name again. His number was still in his phone, after all. “Is Cas gonna be there?” The line went quiet for a long minute. “Mom?”

“As far as I know, honey,” she ventured, calm. _Great_ —he hadn’t been in the same room as Castiel since he headed west to Los Angeles. Not that Dean expected him to stay away from his own father’s funeral, but still. Their families still lived next door to each other back in Lawrence, presumably still visiting every day and hanging out on each other’s front porches. For all he knew, Castiel hadn’t visited since the day he left, not even for Christmas. If he was still alive, anyway. “You sure you’ll be alright? I know you two haven’t been in good sorts recently.”

Dean laughed under his breath— _good sorts_ didn’t even begin to cover it. Never would. “I’ll be fine, Mom. I’ll just…” He glanced over to his desk, spotting the light-blue paper crane sitting atop his pen holder gathering dust. Five years—it shouldn’t have still hurt. “…I’ll be fine.”

-+-

Sam was waiting for him outside the Amtrak station in Kansas City two evenings later, the entire station platform and surrounding sidewalks blanketed in a thick coat of snow, only a few footprints marring the white surface. Flakes still fell from high above, sticking to his hair the second he left the safety of the terminal and trudged towards the parking lot, a suitcase in each hand and headphones slung around his neck. “You didn’t tell me it’d be _snowing_ ,” Dean groused the second he reached his late father’s Impala— _Sam’s_ Impala, he corrected. Given to him solely because Dean wasn’t there. But he was back now, albeit temporarily, and Sam would be leaving for his fancy university in New York soon. Maybe Dean could drive it back home, at least for another semester before he graduated and left for God knew where. Did people in New York even drive?

 “You know, if you’d’ve flown, you would’ve been here sooner,” Sam offered with a grin. Dean dropped his bags and threw Sam into a hug before he could continue his taunting, head propped up on his brother’s shoulder. It really _had_ been too long; even with weekly Skype calls and packages sent in the mail, it never did make up for physical contact and knowing he had a family waiting for him. He was there, though—for the first time in years, Dean was home. Sam patted his back in recognition, laughing quietly under his breath. “Dude, you smell like stale pot.”

Dean shook his head and pulled away, brushing the newly fallen snow from his hair. “Pretty sure the dude next to me was growin’ it outta his suitcase,” he huffed. “Now c’mon. I didn’t bring a coat and I’m gonna freeze if you keep me out here.”

Sam unlocked the trunk and helped Dean stow his bags, fitting them next to the spare tire and a patinated tool box, probably from when the vehicle came off the factory line. Or Sam bought it at a consignment shop, either one. The interior was the same as he remembered it, all black leather and worn seats, crank windows and an air conditioner that only worked when the temperature was above eighty degrees. Though, now she featured an iPhone jack and a speaker system that _definitely_ wasn't factory issue. “Did you put a new stereo in?” Dean asked, hand to the speaker in the passenger side door as they drove, the sounds of Sinatra vibrating through his skin.

“Actually, Dad did that.” Dean glanced over, catching the humor in Sam’s eyes. “He started restoring her before you left, and we kinda… finished it.” Sam shrugged, eyes to the road. “He wants it to be a graduation present for you. Surprise?”

 _Oh_. Dean blinked and sat back, eyes to his lap. He didn't know why he hadn’t thought of it before, the purchases Mary had told him about just after he moved to the dorms, how tight their finances had been for those few months before winter break. Why Dean hadn’t been allowed in the garage that Christmas. John was restoring the Impala—for _him_. “Why didn’t anyone say anything?” Dean asked, ignoring the budding wetness in his eyes, quickly blinking it away.

“Figured you’ll need it in the spring,” Sam offered, oddly cheeky. “I figured, everyone’ll come down for your graduation and me and you can drive back. How does a road trip sound?”

Dean laughed, quiet, idly staring at the passing streetlamps. “…Sounds great, Sammy.”

-+-

Light shined through the closed bedroom window the following morning, blinding in his face. _Daylight_ —at least he didn't have class to look forward to, this time. Covering his head with a pillow, Dean groaned into the bedspread of his former bedroom, now outfitted as a guest room for travelers seeking a decent night’s sleep away from the hotels in town. At least his parents’ could make some money out of his absence, he figured; at least they weren’t alone, even if they were strangers.

From what he could tell, Lawrence hadn’t changed much since he last visited over the summer, and neither had their home. Mary had greeted him with open arms when they arrived at almost eleven in the evening and promptly shoved him off towards his bedroom, claiming she had stayed up _all night_ to see him and he was interrupting her beauty sleep. Sam crashed after her, leaving Dean to unpack his bags and pray for the bliss of sleep for a solid hour before finally nodding off.

The sound of cutlery in the kitchen broke through the silence of his room every once in a while, keeping him awake no matter how hard he closed his eyes. Out of the way of his pillow, he noted the flashing 8:03 on the digital clock display and whined again—so much for getting more than a few hours of sleep. At least it was more than he had gotten on the train, too worried about someone making off with his bags or his laptop to actually close his eyes for more than a few minutes at a time.

The scenery had made up for it though—miles and miles of snow covered earth and gray skies, all of it calming the nerves that threatened to rattle his bones, just from the thought of _Castiel_ being nearby. Maybe he wouldn't come over, Dean figured—maybe the most he would see of him would be at the funeral, and then he’d be off doing whatever for the rest of the break. Or, Castiel could be downstairs waiting to lay into him again, like he hadn’t already broken Dean’s heart the first time. The idea left him shuddering, burrowing further into the blankets, unwilling to leave.

A series of knocks forced him from his temporary sanctuary, becoming more insistent the longer he ignored it, until he _swore_ someone was planning to take the door down. “Dean, wake _up_. Mom’s been calling you for five minutes!”

Sam—of _course_ it would be Sam. At least it wasn’t his father this time, the last incident over the summer nearly sending him into cardiac arrest just from the sure _abruptness_ of it. Sam was always quieter, less forceful—until now. His brother attempted to jiggle the door knob, his efforts coming up empty. “Come _on._ It’s daylight—.”

“Calm your britches, Sammy,” Dean groused and finally pulled the pillow from over his head, throwing it onto the other side of the bed. He had to face the music sometime; sleeping until noon sounded infinitely more preferable though, based on how white the yard was, pristine blankets covering everything he could see through the window. Maybe they were snowed in; maybe he didn't have to go anywhere. Maybe they could spend Christmas there and never have to leave his bed.

No such luck. “Dean, come _on_ ,” Sam whined, giving one final smack on the door before abandoning his mission, trudging down the hall.

Dean stared up at the popcorn ceiling in Sam’s absense, blinking slow, methodical. _Castiel’s not here_ , he told himself, wishing it were the truth. _Castiel’s in Los Angeles with the rest of his friends_. _He’s not here_.

If only he could have believed it, himself. Dressed in blue flannel pajama pants and a well-worn Jennings shirt, Dean made his way from his bedroom down to the kitchen, his mother and Sam’s voice echoing off the hallway walls. John was somewhere, he figured, probably shoveling the sidewalk or napping on the couch, or trying to teach Sam’s Mastiff to do something other than drool all over his pant leg. Why they let that thing in the house in the first place, Dean still had no idea.

Though instead of the solitude of the four of them in one house, he found a new addition at the kitchen table, blue hair swept to one side, decked out with an array of piercings up his right ear and eyebrow, donning more jewelry on his fingers and around his wrists than probably necessary. Vaguely, Dean noted the shimmer of one of his rings, a silver band emblazoned with red and black stripes and a garnet set in the center. His class ring— _their_ class ring. “…Cas?”

Both Mary and Sam spun around at Dean’s presence, Sam stuck still attempting to pull plates from the kitchen cabinets, Mary halfway through scrambling eggs. Castiel never once looked at him, too engrossed with his hands on the tabletop, one finger occasionally twirling a black band on his ring finger; Dean swallowed and ignored the pang in his chest, bowing his head. “Castiel’s mom went across town,” Mary offered once the shock wore off, returning to the skillet in her hand. “I’m sure you won’t mind him spending some time here, right?”

“That’s…” He shook his head, torn between running back to his room and wrapping his arms around Castiel’s neck. _Like old times_ , he mused, lamenting. “That’s fine,” Dean finished and rounded the table, sitting across from his old friend. Castiel refused to look up at him, pale blue irises still locked on his fingers, a faint black ring coloring the skin around his left eye. His lip fared the same treatment, blood clotting where a lip ring probably once resided, now torn away.

Despite the ache in his bones, Dean resisted the urge to reach across the table and take Castiel’s hand in his, resisted the need to tell him that everything would be alright. That whoever hurt him didn’t mean it, didn’t deserve to even know him. But they weren’t eighteen anymore—they weren’t _them_ anymore, the former selves they destroyed the minute Castiel told him how he really felt. The Castiel that boarded a plane at Kansas City International without so much as a goodbye. If only they _were_. Not… whatever Castiel was now, decked out in black leather and piercings and wearing his agony on his shoulders, alone.

Even apologies wouldn't work, not that he had anything to apologize for. _Dean_ was the victim, here. Bore the scars on his heart from the proverbial knife that cut him open, bore the tattoo of a name he could never convince himself to get covered. Absently, he rubbed at the spot and lowered his eyes. Words wouldn’t come to him; words wouldn't save either of them. Not anymore.

“Dean,” John’s gruff voice called out from the living room, abruptly followed by Agatha’s thunderous bark, the force of it, along with her claws clicking on the hardwood, shocking them all into near panic. Agatha bounded on unstable legs in Dean’s direction, managing to stand almost three quarters of his height and balance her front paws on Dean’s thigh, all while attempting to lick his face off. John followed in after, idly scratching at his beard. “Help me take the dog out.”

No matter how hard he struggled to get Agatha off of him, the puppy wouldn't budge, too excited to see the not-new housemate; Sam was of no help, too busy laughing while setting five plates at the table. “Dad—you know how to—.”

“Help me take the _dog out_ ,” John said again, an order, jerking his thumb towards the front door. “Agatha, come.”

At that, Agatha finally ceased her attempt to lick Dean’s skin off and dropped to the floor, following John out the front door. With reluctance, Dean followed, barely ignoring the way he could feel Castiel’s eyes on him as he grabbed one of his spare coats off the rack by the front door and trudged outside. In the yard, Agatha was prancing through at least five inches of snowfall, attempting to swallow whatever came close to her mouth. “What was that about?” Dean asked, futilely attempting to scrub the dog slobber off his face while John watched on, obviously amused despite his regularly placid expression. “What was all that about?” he repeated, pulling his coat tighter around him, a vain attempt to fight off the chill in the air. “What’s so important?”

“Castiel’s going to be staying with us until Sunday,” John commented, hands in his pockets. Dean’s eyes shot open at the words, mouth slack. _What_? “Naomi wouldn’t tell us why, but Michael handed his ass to him, so he’ll be staying in your room until we take him to the airport.”

“You can’t—You can’t _do_ that!” The force of the words shocked even him, even more so than the glare John shot him, brows furrowed into a hard arch. Hands curled into his shirt under his jacket, Dean continued, heart in his throat, “You can’t just shove him on me like that—.”

“There’s no other choice,” John barked back. “We don’t have any other rooms, and the damn _dog_ thinks the couch is her bed.” A sigh; John’s eyes turned to Agatha across the yard, the Mastiff attempting to drag a felled branch through the snow. “I thought you two used to be friends.” Dean stared down at his feet, socked toes curling into the concrete porch floor. “You’ve never told us what happened.”

Dean shook his head, absently wringing his fingers in his shirt. No one needed to know; no one needed to worry about how something had been missing from him for all of those years, that the reason he still couldn't sleep at night was because those words played over and over in his head, a never ending litany of ‘ _I don’t need you_ ’ and ‘ _You’re better off alone_.’ One day it would fade, he figured. The longer he stayed away, the longer he could outrun the voices, the burning need to call Castiel and tell him how he really felt, to confess like he did the first time. Not that Castiel would listen either way.

His family didn't need to worry over his love life. No one did. “It’s nothing,” Dean said through an exhale, disheartened. John’s face softened ever so slightly, the faintest hint of concern there. “Just—forgot it. Tell him to put his stuff in my room.”

 _It’ll be fine_ , he told himself, head hung low. _I’ll be fine_.

-+-

Dean wouldn't be fine, not as long as Castiel was there under his roof, in his bedroom. On his _bed_ , head in his hands and breathing like he had just run a marathon, entire body shuddering. Night had fallen only four hours before, John and Mary heading off to bed shortly after dinner, leaving only Sam and Agatha awake downstairs and Dean and Castiel elsewhere, now relocated to Dean’s bedroom while his former best friend cried his eyes out, not even bothering to hold himself back anymore.

Dean couldn't leave him like that, either. The first sign of Castiel’s wavering emotions had been shortly after lunch when Agatha took it as her personal mission to sit _entirely_ in his lap, convinced that she was a puppy even at four months old. Castiel had taken the weight without complaint, though, opting to pet between her ears for a whole two hours while staring at the floor to his right at a particularly interesting strand of carpet. Dean had watched him from his perch on the couch, Castiel more content to sit on the floor away from the rest of them, away from anyone that might have talked to him. No one had seemed inclined, either way. Every once in a while, Sam or Mary asked if he needed anything, if he wanted Agatha to leave him alone, and always received the same answer—“ _I’m fine_.”

But he wasn’t—in no way would Castiel be, considering the sounds he was making. Door closed behind them and lights shut off, Dean crossed the room and sat at his back, leaning on him just enough to let him know he was there, that _someone_ was listening, even if he didn’t think they were. If anything, it only made him weep more, Castiel’s back bowing when Dean moved to embrace him from behind, resting his cheek against the top knot of Castiel’s spine. “Breathe,” Dean whispered, just enough of an order to catch Castiel’s attention. “Breathe, Cas.”

Another minute passed before Dean heard Castiel’s sobs begin to weaken, his body relaxing with every stroke of Dean’s hand over his ribs, the pressure hopefully enough to keep him grounded. “I’m sorry,” Castiel wheezed, his attempt at laughter coming out in a pained whine. “You shouldn’t have to see me like this.”

Dean chuckled and closed his eyes, still keeping his hold tight, almost constricting. After years without contact, he would take what he could get. “Figure this is better than nothing,” Dean murmured. Continuing his attempt at a caress, he waited for Castiel to finally calm before letting go, reaching over to pull tissues from the box on the nightstand. Castiel took them without question and disposed of them after viciously blowing his nose, coughing at the end. “Is this… about your brother?” Dean ventured. Hand pressed to the bed at Castiel’s hip, he waited for an answer, waited for Castiel to say something that wasn’t a string of curses or didn’t end in another round of tears.

He got his answer, finally, after resting his head on Castiel’s shoulder, letting himself rise and fall with Castiel’s breaths until they steadied, still wary. “Part of it,” Castiel rasped. He cleared his throat and, head bowed, continued, “Michael doesn’t approve of my lifestyle. No one does, really.” A laugh, hollow, distraught; Dean reached over to pat his thigh, letting his hand drop to the bedspread at the last moment. “Out of all the times to fight, he picked this one. Right when…” He shook his head, his grin resentful, agonized. “He said dad would be _disappointed_ in me, seeing me like… _this_.”

“Like you spent the weekend in Sid’s closet?”

That time, Castiel’s laugh was genuine. “Dad never had a problem with it,” Castiel confided. “He never had a problem with anything, really. We weren’t close by no means, but to hear that…”

“Dick move on your brother’s part,” Dean agreed. Against his will, he leaned up enough to let Castiel stand, now pacing the room in his pajamas, pants dragging on the carpet. The longer Dean looked, the more he wanted to join him, bring his arms around his waist again and hold him until he stilled, until the night dragged on into morning. No such luck—near the armoire, Castiel zipped his suitcase and pulled out the handle, making for the door; Dean stopped him halfway, both hands on his chest. “Where do you think—.”

“I’m not going to burden you with me being here,” Castiel ground out, bloodshot eyes narrowed. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

Dean blinked. “Just because we’re fighting doesn’t mean I’m gonna turn you out, Cas,” he whispered, low. Reaching over to take Castiel’s bag, he pushed it back into the corner, all while keeping their gazes locked.

“We’re fighting?” was the one phrase Dean hadn’t been expecting. Because the last time he remembered, he thought they _were_. That was what this was about, wasn't it? Castiel, the perpetrator, the one who hadn’t answered his phone calls for the first year, the one who never even attempted to contact him, even over the holidays. Turning to him, Castiel cocked his head at an angle, eyes scrutinizing his very soul. “I wasn’t—.”

“Don’t lie,” Dean waved him off. Sitting on the right side of the bed, he watched Castiel cross his arms, lips pursed. “I used to call you, y’know. Figured you were ignoring me or you got a new number or… After a while, I just thought you didn’t want anything to do with me.”

“…I know,” Castiel muttered, barely a whisper.

Dean faced him, expression blank. “You—You knew?” he stammered. His heart rattled erratically in his chest, hands twitching in his lap where he attempted to calm them, calm the nerves wracking his frame. Castiel knew he called— _knew_ he wanted to talk to him and ignored all of it. “You knew I was calling you, and you still—.”

“I didn’t know what to do.” Castiel approached the edge of the bed, still unwilling to make eye contact, too focused on the handmade quilt laid atop the blankets. “You had just told me you _loved_ me, Dean. And I’d just gotten accepted to UCLA, I didn’t… At the time, I didn’t know how I felt.”

 _Oh_. At least his outburst finally made sense—Castiel didn’t have feelings for him. Probably never did, despite the years Dean spent at his side, the countless times Castiel snuck in after his dad got home from work with whiskey on his breath, the kisses that followed their first under the dimmed lights of their homecoming dance. Prom had been a mistake from the start, then. He swallowed the residual shame in his throat, attempting to shove back the look on Castiel’s face outside the gymnasium doors that night, the absolute hatred there overshadowing everything else. “Sure made that clear,” Dean laughed, wet and hollow. “Never had someone tell me they hated me before.”

“I don’t _hate_ you.” Rounding the bed, Castiel sat at his side and pulled his legs to his chest, pensive. “I never did. I just… It was an awful time to tell me.”

“When else was I supposed to do it?” At that, Dean sat up straighter, fists clenched in his lap. This wasn’t happening. This wasn’t _real_. “That’s your excuse for throwing it in my face, that it was a _bad time_? Look at me.” Castiel refused; Dean forced him with both hands to his cheeks, watching the sadness in those blue eyes spill over. _Shit_. “It took me _weeks_ , Cas. _Weeks_ to work up the nerve, and you just…” He stopped, shaking his head. “You coulda just walked away and I would’ve been fine. …Sure’s hell woulda hurt less.”

Absently, he wiped away the wetness gathering beneath Castiel’s eye with his thumb, Castiel’s jaw clenching under his palm. “I didn’t want that,” Castiel whispered and attempted to turn his head; Dean kept him still, fighting off the tremor in his hands. “I was scared, and you were my first… _everything_. I didn’t…”

Something in Dean’s heart broke at the new wave of tears that spilled down Castiel’s face, this time not from mourning a lost father or his dwindling family connections. No, now remorse flooded him, from the life they could have had if Castiel had just answered the phone, if they had just _talked_ instead of running to either coast and hoping it would just disappear, like the entirety of their lives together had been nothing but a hallucination. Castiel softened in his touch and leaned in, enough for Dean to draw him into an embrace, Castiel’s fingers clawing at the back of his shirt in a desperate attempt to bring Dean closer, to rebuild what he had broken. “I’m sorry,” Castiel sobbed into his shoulder; Dean held him close and breathed him in, soothing the ever-permanent ache in his chest just a little. “I’m sorry I hurt you.”

“You didn’t mean to,” Dean told him, loud enough to be audible against his neck. Castiel shuddered through the tears, and Dean only clutched him tighter, fighting off his own emotions, the ones that threatened to tear him to the core. Because he had this, now—he had Castiel in his arms once again, no long separated by thousands of miles and an extremely long train ride. Not that he had ever attempted the distance, but the thought had always been there, niggling in the back of his brain. Telling him to _run_ , _find him_. _Get him back again_.

“I did,” Castiel said, muffled. “I wanted to hurt you, I wanted to push you away because I was scared. I couldn't tell you I felt the same.”

Dean pulled away enough to look him in the eye, Castiel’s still closed, wet. “Do you?” he asked, voice wavering. “Cas, _please_ —.”

“I do.” Castiel looked at him, finally, truth in his eyes, determination. “I never stopped.”

Thank _God_. Dean threw him into another embrace, nuzzling his neck with elation coursing through him. Castiel loved him—Cas _loved_ him, after all this time. “Then don’t leave me,” Dean laughed, caught halfway between a sob. “Don’t you _ever_ leave me again.”

“I won’t.” Castiel ran his fingers through Dean’s hair, petting circles along his nape. “I won’t, not again.”

 _Good_. For another few minutes, he held Castiel there on the right side of the bed, letting their heartbeats sync in the steady sway of their bodies, until he was sure Castiel had fallen asleep on him, or was somewhere very close to meditating. With some maneuvering, he worked them both onto the top of the sheets and pulled the quilt over them; it would work until either of them woke up freezing in the middle of the night. Hopefully, Castiel would still be there in the morning; the service was at noon, and after that, they would hopefully reconvene for Christmas Eve dinner.

Even better, maybe Castiel could spend it with him.

-+-

Dean hated churches.

The size, the smell of old books, the blank white walls and the preacher that still managed to drone on outside of sermons. For the most part, Dean feigned attention, absently staring at the preacher while Charles Novak’s casket sat behind him on a table, oak and mahogany and everything extravagant the Novak’s money could afford. Castiel remained at his side throughout, majority of his relatives sitting on the opposite end of the church, Dean seated with his family and other friends, some lifelong, some he had never seen before in his life. Occasionally, someone he barely knew stood and spoke during the eulogy, including Castiel’s mother and two brothers, all whom cast glances over at the blue-haired man; Dean just held his hand through it, both shoved under his thigh, out of sight. No one would know. No one would _care_ , if he had any say in it.

Castiel’s family was the first to leave after the closing prayer, his brothers fully expecting him to follow. With blatant intentions, Castiel ignored them, nose pressed to Dean’s shoulder in a failing attempt to hide himself. And Dean would have laughed if the situation weren’t so dire, if the look Michael shot him wasn’t the most frightening thing he had ever seen. Castiel couldn't go back there, he decided; as long as Michael and Inias were there, neither he nor his friend would step foot in that house again.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go with them?” Mary asked after the rest of the church had filed out, most of the patrons piling into their cars to follow after the hearse once Charles’ casket was loaded inside. At Castiel’s headshake, Mary glanced over to John and Sam, already inside the Impala with his headlights on. “We’re taking the car, but you can ride with Dean in the truck. That sound good to you two?”

“I appreciate it, really,” Castiel said, solemn. “Thank you for letting me stay with you, as well.”

“We’ll be behind you guys,” Dean supplied. As soon as Mary hugged Castiel and walked to the Impala, Dean grabbed Castiel’s hand again, threading their fingers together. “You sure you’re alright?” he asked, catching the pained look in Castiel’s eye. Castiel’s hand shook in his, faint, just enough to be noticeable. “You cold?”

“I haven’t been around snow for this long in a while,” Castiel remarked and stomped his foot, listening to it squish beneath his dress shoes. “I… have a suggestion, Dean.”

Dean cocked a brow. “And what’s that?”

“…Do you remember that motel we stayed at in Valley Falls, the one with the swans on the walls?”

Of course he did; that wallpaper had haunted him the entire two days they stayed there, beady little black eyes watching him at every turn. That ‘vacation’ had been Castiel’s idea, claiming he needed to get away from his family before he snapped and punched someone. And Dean, too happy to comply, had driven the two of them there in the cab of his mother’s truck and spent the weekend in blissful solitude with nothing but the snow around them as their company. “You sayin’ you’re gonna try to take out your brother?”

“ _No_ ,” Castiel said with an eyeroll. “I’m saying, I would really prefer not to go to the funeral. …I don’t think I can stand to be around them, right now.”

Dean didn’t blame him at all; considering the looks Michael had shot him over the years and the threats that came with friendship and what once was their relationship, Dean didn't care to be around him either. Especially on the day of their father’s funeral, everyone bitter from the cold and nerves. “You’re sure?” Dean asked, loud enough to overshadow the noise of the cars all around them starting up, some pulling out of the parking lot behind the hearse, the procession making its slow trek across town. Castiel could say no, and Dean would let him; he could back out and ask to go see his father’s casket being lowered, and Dean would still take him wherever he wanted.

But to his shock, Castiel nodded, his eyes following the long line of cars filing down the suburban streets of Lawrence. “Anywhere but here.”

In the cab of his mother’s old Ford, Dean shot off a text to Sam telling him that they were heading north and threw his phone in glove box. “They’ll understand,” Dean offered with a shrug; Castiel just shook his head with a chuckle and sat back, eyes to the road.

Valley Falls was only fifty minutes from Lawrence on a good day, when the roads were clear and snow wasn’t covering the ground. As of now, the snowbanks stood a good few feet high on either side, another layer attempting to form on the blacktop, turning to slush the further they drove from the city into the surrounding suburbs. Castiel didn’t speak a word for majority of their trip after they swung back by Dean’s home for their bags, aside from their pit stop at the Valero in Meriden for food and condoms, all under Castiel’s surveillance. Hopefully the clerk hadn’t noticed how red his face was all through checkout, or the absolutely conspiratorial glimmer in Castiel’s eyes as he headed back to the truck.

The snow fell heavier the closer they ventured towards the Valley Swan Inn, still close enough to the city limits to keep cell reception. Pulling into the almost empty parking lot, he noticed the precipitation gathering on the roof and the power lines, the weight leaving them sagging. “We might lose power soon,” Castiel said, eyes glued to the streetlamps. “We should have changed before we left your house.”

“’S what we got the stuff in the back for,” Dean chimed in, thumbing to the back bench seat where his duffel and Castiel’s suitcase sat. “C’mon, let’s check in before we get stuck in this damn truck.”

Their room, on the far end of the motel, was thankfully decorated with white boats on pastel blue wallpaper, much less atrocious than the swans that had stared holes in his neck all night the last time. Castiel liked it in any case, promptly flopping down on the king mattress after Dean lugged their bags inside and set them by the dresser, along with the two Valero bags and the spare quilt Dean had snatched from his bedroom. “Do you think we could take a walk?” Castiel asked from the bed, Dean busy sorting through clothes and putting them in individual drawers.

Turning, he watched Castiel wrap himself with the quilt, shivering despite the heating unit’s vain attempts to actually work. “You’ll freeze,” Dean joshed, earning a scowl and Castiel’s suit jacket thrown at him. Dean made a face at the white coat he pulled from Castiel’s bag before tossing it at him. “You still have that thing?”

“It still fits,” Castiel scoffed and shrugged it on, zipping up the front and tugging the hood over his head, faux fur stringy in places. “Can you throw me my jeans?”

With incredible shyness, Dean looked away while they shed their church clothes, Castiel folding his slacks and placing them on the edge of the bed before tugging on his jeans, Dean unbuttoning his dress shirt and tossing it haphazardly to the side. He would clean up later, he decided, not when he could feel Castiel staring at his back, knowing full and well just what he was eyeing. A phoenix motif, inked in reds and yellows from his nape to his hips, fire licking up his back around the golden bird in the center, engulfed in the flames yet thriving, _alive_. After three months of work and all of the money from his job tutoring high schoolers last summer, he finally had a piece of art he could call his own, even if he hadn’t gotten the chance to display it yet.

“When did you get that?” Castiel questioned just before Dean pulled a t-shirt on.

Standing, Dean shrugged and walked towards the motel door, key shoved in his jacket pocket. “Got it finished last month,” he said once they stepped outside, Dean locking the door behind them. From there, they walked around the building to the field in the back, a thick foot of snow already covering the ground in an undisturbed blanket. “Still stings like a bitch if I bend the wrong way.”

At his side, Castiel snorted and tugged his jacket closer, hiding his smile. “You still haven’t changed,” Castiel mused, shaking his head. Dean glanced over at him, at the redness that stained his cheeks, the flush covering his nose. The snow wasn’t doing either of them favors, admittedly; still, he resisted the urge to run back inside into the almost-warmth of their room and crawl under the covers, preferably with Castiel there with him. “I handled my freedom in the exact opposite way my parents wanted.”

Dean stopped them in the middle of the field and tugged Castiel into the snow, now sprawled out on their backs, slush seeping into their clothing. “So you shaved your head and pierced everything you could?”

Castiel laughed. “Not _everything_ ,” he chimed, turning his head to Dean. He joined their bare hands, letting their fingers tangle, a failing attempt to keep warm. “I have my hips pierced, and my nape…” He paused, blinked. “I don’t think I’ll be able to wear my lip ring for a while.”

Dean reached over to thumb over the scab now decorating Castiel’s lip, faint purple dying the surrounding area, following with his left eye. Not even Mary’s best concealer had worked to hide the bruising that was still there, still painful to the touch. Dean nuzzled his cheek anyway, Castiel letting out a content moan from the touch. “Should let it heal,” Dean said, sighing. “I wanna see your others.”

“Later,” Castiel told him, mirthful. Together, they rested despite the quickly growing wetness along the backs of their jeans, their coats doing little to stop the melting snow from seeping into their shirts, almost to the point of uncomfortable. Dean wouldn't have traded it for the world, either way. Castiel was here—Castiel was _with_ him, despite the fact that they just bailed on a funeral and were almost an hour away from town in some rundown motel in almost the middle of nowhere. “…Do you remember the Christmas before we graduated?”

Dean opened and eye and squeezed Castiel’s hand tighter, his breath coming out as steam. “’F course,” he answered, staring at the cloudy sky. “You… We came here the day after, first time we didn't have to use fake ID’s to check in.”

Humming, Castiel swung his free arm out to the side, swiping snow away in an arc. “It snowed then, too. You took my virginity.”

He couldn't help it—he laughed, loud, scattering a few cardinals perched on a nearby branch. “God, those two things don’t go together,” he said after he recovered, wiping his hand down his face. “You kinda… took mine too, so there’s that.”

“I never wanted to leave you,” Castiel blurted. Leaning back on his elbows, Dean noticed the wariness in his eyes, the remorse for something Castiel had long harbored, now breaking free. “My family… They didn’t want me to be distracted since UCLA was courting me. And they suspected I was… _involved_ with you because of how much time we spent together. My father didn't care, but Naomi…” Castiel turned away enough to hide his face, chewing his lower lip. “I wanted to tell you I loved you too, but… You just made saying ‘no’ so easy. I never… I regretted it every day, Dean. I couldn't get your face out of my head, and I drowned myself in whatever I could to take the pain away. Sex, piercings, tattoos… But you always came to mind. And after all of that, I still couldn't bring myself to talk to you again.” He closed his eyes. “You shouldn't love me.”

“I can’t stop.” In a blur of limbs, Dean moved to straddle him, soaked jacket arms bracketing Castiel’s head. Castiel watched him in shock, blue eyes wet from the cold and fear, bright. “I tried, I tried to forget you. I tried to tell myself I was over you, and just when I thought I could move on…” He lowered his head to rest against Castiel’s neck, sighing with the feel of Castiel’s hands creeping up his back, resting between his shoulder blades. Where they should have been all along. “…You came back.”

“I’ll always come back to you,” Castiel murmured, and Dean groaned into their kiss, Castiel’s lips frigid against his own, Castiel’s tongue licking inside deliberately. Five years apart, and he still knew how to take Dean apart, knew how to turn his neck red with kisses and caresses, knew how to make him moan with just his lips below his ear. The snow muffled most of their noises, Castiel panting breaths between kisses and the slow roll of their sodden hips together, Dean whining just from being touched. “It’s been too long, Dean,” Castiel hissed, tugging at Dean’s hair, forcing their lips together again.

“I’m wet,” Dean managed once he broke away, Castiel a flustered mess between his legs, red from the cold and arousal—and confusion. “I mean—We’re soaked, not like—.”

Castiel chuckled between breaths and tugged Dean down again, leaving one last kiss on the corner of his lips. “Let’s take this inside, then.”

Inside was much more preferable to where they had sprawled out seconds before, Dean praised. Door shut and locked behind them, Castiel immediately rid Dean of his jacket as well as his own coat, tossing the snow-covered articles to the carpet. Dean was on him after that, cold hands to Castiel’s even colder cheeks, lips shining with spit every time they pulled away. “Fucking missed you,” Dean muttered between kisses, tugging Castiel’s shirt over his head to expose the studded barbells near his hips and the multitude of black bands stretching up both arms, along with an impressive mandala covering his shoulder and part of his collar and nape.

Castiel kissed him again in reply, knocking Dean from his stupor. Dean’s shirt was the next to go, followed by his shoes and pants, soaked from the snow, his legs just as chilled. He barely had a chance to catch his breath before Castiel was tugging his briefs down and shoving him back onto the mattress, climbing over him with rampant enthusiasm. “Missed you so much,” Castiel said and went for his own fly, nipping at Dean’s lips all the while. “Missed you like you didn’t know.”

Dean caught his hands in a rush, forcing Castiel to look at him with quirked brows, mouth parted, panting. “Wanna—Wanna ride you,” Dean stammered, finally, and chuckled at Castiel’s amused grin, burying his face in the pillows. “Bag’s on the table.”

“I told you we’d need it,” Castiel laughed and left the bed, shucking his pants and boxer-briefs along the way. Dean watched him with admiration as Castiel crossed the room, stroking up his half-hard cock at the curve of Castiel’s ass and the hourglass tattooed on the small of his back, white wings stretching out on either side. Dean still couldn't believe how different he looked compared to when he saw Castiel last, sheltered high school jock turned tattooed nightmare with a cock that bobbed heavy between his legs, thick and uncut and wet—Dean never wanted anything in his mouth more.

Castiel returned with the box of condoms and bottle of lube, tossing them both on the bedspread before crawling over Dean, leaning down to kiss him again. Hips flush, Dean ground into him while they kissed, running his fingers through Castiel’s hair and scratching his nails down his scalp, loving the impatient huffs Castiel panted between breaths. “Want you in me,” Dean moaned, reaching down to cup Castiel’s ass and draw him closer, throwing his head back when he pushed forward just right, their cocks grinding together in a smooth rhythm. “ _Please_ , Cas—.”

Castiel shushed him with another kiss and sat up, enough to where he could reach for the lube beside Dean’s head and tear off the seal. “Give me time,” he teased in Dean’s ear, a shiver running down his spine in anticipation.

Because this was it—after so long, Dean was finally where he wanted to be, in bed with the love of his life and being fingered open inch by inch, until his toes curled into the sheets. Castiel kissed him all the while, one hand tracing down his hip while two fingers pressed inside of him, slick and wet and taunting, all drawing incoherent noises from his lips. “More, Cas,” he pleaded into each kiss and lifted his hips,until he got Castiel’s fingers where he wanted them, pressing over that spot that left him a shuddering mess for moments on end. He clamped down around the third, caught between a moan and a wail. “ _Cas_ —.”

And Castiel was gone, fingers pulled free and his hole clenching around nothing. Across the bed, Castiel had rolled away and padded off to the bathroom, coming back with a scratchy pink towel and a wash rag, apparently afterthoughts. “We have to _sleep_ here, Dean,” Castiel admonished with an eye roll. Dean was more interested in Castiel’s cock, now hard and leaking at the tip, curved at the tip; his own pulsed precum just at the sight, dripping onto his belly in fat drops. “Roll over.”

“Can I just suck you off instead?” Dean chuckled, earning a flick to his ear. Still, he acquiesced, moving out of the way for Castiel to toss the towel down and lay atop it, his knees up, legs spread; Dean practically drooled at the sight.

“You said you wanted to ride me,” Castiel shrugged, patting the sheets at his hips. “Or are you having second thoughts?”

“None whatsoever.” What was meant as a simple statement came out in a rough squeak, the sound of it turning his chest even more pink. Now wasn't the time for embarrassment, or nerves or any of it—now, he wanted this. Wanted _Castiel_ , all of him, all of this for as long as he could remember. Clearing his thoughts, he crawled over Castiel’s waist while Castiel rolled a condom over his cock, slicking it up with another coat of lube. “Show me how you want me,” Dean said, leaning down to kiss Castiel, feeling Castiel’s lips uptick against his own.

“Like this.” And Castiel reached up to cover Dean’s shoulders with his palms, leaving Dean to settle back and push Castiel’s sheathed cock against his rim. He let it rest there for a while, lazily thrusting back on it and letting it ride his cleft, Castiel occasionally arching up for more friction, the head tagging his rim every time. “Dean,” Castiel whispered, barely audible, one hand in his hair. “ _Dean_.”

That was enough of a plea for him. Hand on Castiel’s cock, he pushed down until the head slipped past his rim, his fingers gripping desperately into the bedspread the further he progressed, until Castiel was buried inside of him, warm and thick and everything he remembered. “Feels so good,” Dean said into his ear, caught in a whimper; Castiel pet down his back to soothe his nerves, never once moving unless instructed. “Feels so good like this.”

“I missed this,” Castiel sighed, swallowing. Dean licked at his neck while he adjusted, purring every time Castiel stroked down to his ass, sometimes petting his rim, other times just massaging the flesh there, all of it turning him on further until his cock twitched between their bellies, leaking fresh precum against Castiel’s skin. Still, that was nothing compared to the look Castiel gave him, his palms pressed to Dean’s cheeks, thumbing beneath his eye. “Love you,” Castiel affirmed, no trace of hesitance in his tone. Dean’s breath hitched, eyes wet. “Love you so much, Dean.”

Never in Dean’s life had he been a good crier. Now was no exception as Castiel thrust into him, soft and slow, Dean clinging to the pillow and an arm around Castiel’s neck while he sobbed, soundless and broken. Castiel shushed him throughout, whispering soft praises into his ear and sucking marks beneath it, a welcome distraction to the emotion coursing through him. “Are you alright?” Castiel asked, hips stilled. Against his neck, Dean nodded. “I need you to tell me, Dean.”

“’M fine,” he shuddered, breathing still labored. Everything _had_ been fine until reality set in, until he truly felt Castiel with him, _inside_ him, the reality of it bringing him to his senses. “’M fine, ‘s just…” Pulling up, he pressed their foreheads together, his eyes still closed. “Wish we never broke up.”

Castiel drew him into a kiss, softer than anything he had ever felt before. When he looked, Castiel was smiling at him, gentle, a stray tear falling down his face. His heart shouldn't have hurt like it did, just from one drop. “I’ll never stop apologizing,” Castiel said, and pulled him close, letting their bodies press flush together. Dean’s cock laid soft against Castiel’s belly, arousal abating the longer they lay there, unmoving; instead, he listened to the rhythm of Castiel’s heart, still frantic but slow, methodical. “Are you still interested?” Castiel asked after a while, cock still half-hard in his ass, Castiel’s hips trembling with the urge to stay still until _Dean_ told him to.

Another wave of tears rushed down his cheeks at the thought, his heart swelling. “Yeah,” he breathed and sat up, Castiel’s cock slipping fully inside him again, brushing past his prostate. “Yeah, c’mon. Want you to.”

This time, Dean initiated the first thrust, riding back onto Castiel’s cock with Castiel’s hands on his hips, guiding him down. Each time, Dean threw his head back, idly stroking his own cock back to hardness until he was wet and leaking in his grasp, hand slick with his own precum. “So good,” Dean praised, mouth open and panting, hissing every time Castiel’s cock brushed against his prostate. “Fuck me so good, Cas.”

Below him, Castiel bared his neck with a moan; Dean latched onto the fresh skin with enthusiasm as Castiel took over, hands palming his ass as he thrust up and _in_ , Dean swearing obscenities at every pass. “You’re too loud,” Castiel hushed him, capturing his lips again and swallowing each and every one of Dean’s groans. “Fuck, _Dean_ —.”

With Castiel’s next push, Dean let out a gasp and reached down to fist himself, his entire body convulsing with the need to come, to spill himself and never stop. “You’re gonna make me come,” he whined, face buried in Castiel’s neck as Castiel sped up, thrusting against his prostate with incredible accuracy. “Oh _fuck_ , baby—I’m gonna come—.”

Without warning, Castiel tugged Dean’s hand away and replaced it with his own, fucking the head in his fist in quick bursts, Dean almost sobbing into their kiss when he came, hot and slow, dirtying Castiel’s hand and their stomachs with his release. He shuddered in the aftermath, Castiel still fucking into him with enthusiasm, repeating Dean’s name until Dean felt his cock thicken further, felt his body pull taut and then release, coming inside the condom with a shout.

After that, Dean felt himself drop off, vaguely aware of Castiel pulling out and shuffling about the room, at one point wiping his stomach and ass down with washcloth until they were both clean. He must have passed out, he figured, or the sudden endorphin rush had him crashing before he could fight his way back to consciousness. Or, maybe it was just from Castiel clinging to his back while he slept, the bed warm beneath the sheets, the wall unit still valiantly attempting to heat the room. “Are you awake?” Castiel asked against his neck after a while, his breath hot in the scant space between them.

Dean let out a breath and rolled over, drawing an arm around Castiel’s naked waist and tugging them flush, foreheads pressed together. “Never passed out before,” he said with a grin, Castiel matching his expression. “Don't think I’ve ever come that hard before, either.”

Castiel kissed him and cupped his cheek, his smile more downtrodden now, sad. “…I wish this had happened under better circumstances,” Castiel admitted, eyes downcast. Dean kissed his forehead, ruffling his hair. “It’s the day of my father’s funeral, and yet…”

“You’re better off here,” Dean said, solemn; he felt Castiel nod and sigh, disheartened. “…Tomorrow when we get back, after dinner, do you wanna go see him?”

“If you’ll come with me.” Dean nodded and allowed Castiel to sit up, watching his friend leave the bed and rummage through his suitcase for something, coming up with a small red-wrapped box. “I’ve had this for a few years, but I didn’t know if you wanted…”

A present—Castiel got him a _present_. And apparently a long time ago, at that. “Wish I coulda gotten you something,” he admitted, sheepish. The thought had never crossed his mind, the pure idea of Castiel actually wanting to talk to him almost unfathomable at the time. How he had gotten here, he still couldn't quite comprehend. He sat up and took the box as Castiel crawled back in beside him, unwrapping the box and tossing the paper to the side. Inside the package sat a black book decorated with a green bow, filled with sheets of photo sleeves and pictures he hadn’t seen in years.

 _A photo album_. “You got me pictures of us?” Dean asked, running his fingers over the laminated pages, each with a photograph marked with the year taken. Pictures of Mary and Naomi holding them as babies, Christmases and birthdays and the year Castiel got a bike and promptly crashed into his father’s car. First days of school, vacations in Florida, homecoming, Castiel’s first football game. The night of prom.

Castiel touched his hand atop the last page, threading their fingers together over the color photograph, the two of them in suits in front of John and Mary’s back porch door, Castiel’s corsage in his suit jacket pocket, Dean’s necklace around Castiel’s neck. “I guess it was my way of trying to win you back,” Castiel mused, pressing a kiss to Dean’s bare shoulder. “Is it working?”

Dean smiled, laughed. “You never got rid of me.” Fingers still linked, he reached his free hand to turn Castiel’s face to him, kissing him once more before pressing their foreheads together. “…What’re we gonna do now?”

Castiel let out a rough breath, gripping his hand tighter. “I’m graduating in the spring,” he started, hesitant. “After that… I don’t know.”

“Come with me.” Castiel’s face flushed at Dean’s words, almost a demand. “Me ‘n Sammy were planning a road trip, but… I want you to come with us. …I don’t want you to leave again.”

Initially, he felt the hesitance in Castiel’s hands, the shiver that ran through to his fingertips, strong and sure in his grasp. Fear turned to boldness in an instant, Castiel leaning in close to rest his head against Dean’s shoulder, a smile on his lips. “I’ll stay,” he said, sure. “We can fill in the rest of the book, too.”

Dean kissed his hair and grinned, not even bothering to fight back the tears this time. _He’s mine_ , his heart sang, an endless symphony. “Merry Christmas, Cas.”

A smile. “Merry Christmas, Dean.”

**Author's Note:**

> I was going in a certain direction with this when I first started, and it somehow got away with me and didn't end up anywhere near what I wanted. But I like it in certain aspects, so hopefully this came across well! The terms of the challenge were for it to be holiday themed, annnnnd I don't think that worked out, but here's some winter pain! 
> 
> In other news, I have no idea what I'm doing with fic anymore. I have one or two in the works, but considering I'm in a rut, I have a cold, I'm leaving town for a few days, and my depression is basically a vice grip on my self worth, I have no idea if I'll continue fic after the beginning of the year, or if I'll keep on and work on my books as well. Either way, I need to buckle down on my books. I'm not gonna give up though, because my SPN Reverse Bang is coming out in January, and I'm writing for the Destiel Reverse Bang! :D
> 
> Title is from Beethoven's 8th symphony, specifically [Ingolf Dahl's rendition for "A Boy Named Charlie Brown."](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aF9jBqD3Dlw)
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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